


Arthurian Drabbles

by Megpie71



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-30
Updated: 2004-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megpie71/pseuds/Megpie71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of five drabbles, designed to be read as a single work</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthurian Drabbles

(Guinevere)

She's a sword-blade. Hard, sharp, fiercely beautiful. Deadly with the right person behind her. She's designed for action, for fighting, not for being stored away out of sight until her edge rusts through lack of care. 

Like the best blades, she is brittle. She will break before she bends; shatter before she conforms. Repeated blows will make her fall into a thousand shards, never to be reforged. 

But how to care for her? Keep her edge sharp. Do not let her get blunted by the daily cares of life. Wield the power she represents with care, only when needed. 

 

(Lancelot)

Sparks fly around him, he fans the flames, and turns flames to a roaring blaze. He is the soul of the fire, burning with passion, and at times he can be far too bright for mortal men to bear. The fire burns brightest in combat, where he is a wildfire. The winds of battle fan his spark to a raging inferno. 

Like the fire, he can be both helper and menace; both the warming heat on a cold night, and a force of destruction wrecking homes. People are drawn to him, yet won't touch him for fear of being hurt.

 

(Gawain)

Solid, steady, unshockable. Reliable. Modest. Unremarkable. He is the earth under your feet, the tree you crouch beneath through the rain. He is the cave in the hills where you wait out the winter. He is the first sprouting of the grass through the snow. 

He is the one Britons come to when they need to speak to someone. He is the one new lads go to when they want to talk of home. He is the one who makes sure knights return from carousing and wind up in bed. He is always there, even in the thick of battle. 

 

(Tristan)

He is silence and stealth. Walks the woods as well as the Woads. Appears and disappears as needed. He is wind in the bushes, breeze in the trees. He watches, circles like the hawk he bears. Speaks only when he needs to, keeps the words to the minimum. Fathomless as the sky, unknowable as the clouds. 

He fights as a whirlwind, the rush of an arrow snapping past an ear, the whistle of a blade passing to its destination. Movement and action at an unbelievable pace, then stillness. A calm in the centre of the storm, a regathering of forces. 

 

(Arthur)

He shelters, protects. Unmoveable when he wants to be, but small changes, the action of small frosts and thaws, can wear him down. He is ritual, he is stolidity. He is the circle to the south, the barrow to the east, the monolith to the west. He is the Wall itself. He is made part of this land, carved from another, transported here. He is built to last, hard to move. 

You can't go through. Knocking him down will take time. You can go around him, but he is guarded - by earth, air, fire, metal – and they will prove deadly.


End file.
